


Tulua

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: Van Helsing (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Drama, F/M, Gen, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Vampires, What was going through Flesh's mind after the scene in 1x02 where he was hosed off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:39:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: He crossed his arms, hugging his middle. Desperate for some sort of stability as the sound of raised voices filtered down the hall.





	Tulua

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Netflix's "Van Helsing" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: I recently got into "Van Helsing" and fell in love with Flesh (Phil). Set in 1x02 and based around Flesh (Phil) trying to figure out his new normal after being turned back.
> 
> Warnings: vampires, blood drinking, past trauma, drama, angst, ptsd.

_"Help me. Please, please, please, please! Who are you? What's going on? Who are you people?!"_

* * *

It wasn't until his knees started wobbling that he realized the others had filed out a long time ago. Leaving him naked and dripping in the middle of the laundry room. A minefield of slippery tiles and muscles that didn't quite remember they had limitations and weakness again.

He crossed his arms, hugging his middle. Desperate for some sort of stability as the sound of raised voices filtered down the hall. Teeth chattering inside his skull as he stumbled over to the closest wall and slid down it. Hissing when his sack glanced the freezing wet tiles.

His nerves had been dead for so long he'd almost forgotten.

Forgotten what it was like to feel.

Feel anything but the hunger.

The need to feed.

He tucked his knees into his chest. Rocking back into the wall as he stared at nothing. Listening to the  _plink-plink-plink_  from the drain.

He was human.

It was still a horrible, amazing sort of novelty.

_Human._

Not vampire.

_Human._

His eyes fluttered closed, lashes wet with water or maybe something else as they clumped together, trying to dry.

The dead girl.

She'd changed him.

Brought him back.

His hands curled into brutal fists as his head connected hollowly against the wall.

Sometimes unwitting surrender could be as savage as any attack. That was what it had felt like. An attack on the darkness that had been thrust on him. Resuscitating him by force as he'd shuddered with it. Gagging. Struggling to understand. Struggling to stay afloat as his insides came back to life like someone had his nervous system in a vice grip.

Less than a day ago he'd been Julius' most trusted Lieutenant. Heading a legion of vampires on what was perhaps the most important mission Julius had ever tasked him with. And just as he'd always done, he'd managed to do what so many whispered couldn't be.  _He'd found her._  And he'd relished in it, blood-high and confident as he sank his teeth and swallowed, waiting for her to turn or maybe just die. Either way, he'd planned to drag her back to Julius himself. But now he was-

He flinched, startled. The muscles in his chest tensing painfully - like a stroke or maybe a small heart attack - when the door suddenly swung open.

He couldn't see.

_Christ._

He'd been wiping his eyes ever since he'd woken up at the bottom of the chute but it wasn't the blood or the water that refused to let them clear.

_Jesus._

He needed his glasses.

"Here, these should fit, more or less anyway," the kid -  _Mohammad?_  - told him. Setting down a pile of maroon hospital scrubs and pair of squashed looking flip flops. "I don't know what you're going to be able to salvage from what you were wearing, but if you don't chuck the rest down the chute soon the others might start a fire. It's still pretty rank. So, might want to get on that, if you care."

He didn't.

It could all burn as far as he was concerned.

But Mohamad was talking again, voice echoing off the tiles in a way that was somewhere beyond overwhelming. Making him flinch again and again. Aware on some level that the tall one, Sam, was a constant shadow in the doorway, pipe in hand.

"Hey, my recommendation? Try and salvage what you can. Pretty sure the mall is fresh out and the lost and found box isn't exactly spoiled for choice, if you know what I mean. Oh- right- uh, Axel says you sleep by the cage with Doc tonight, alright? Probably safer there anyway."

_For who?_

_Him or the others?_

_Or maybe both?_

The kid was gone again before he could say anything. Before he could thank him or maybe just fall apart with an audience.

He exhaled shakily.

Relieved.

Disappointed.

Wounded.

Disassociating.

He felt so much he felt numb.

He didn't regret it.  
 _  
He couldn't_.

But he didn't deserve it.

Yet here he was,  _feeling._

And he had to make that count for something.  
 _  
For them._

* * *

He slipped on the scrubs before he finally turned to the bloody pile or clothes he'd left on the floor. Oozing red and god knows what in the lazy direction of the drain. More or less nose-blind by this point as he inhaled shakily. Personally, he wasn't sure he'd ever get the smell out of his skin and hair. Convinced it had seeped into his pores and was poisoning his blood stream.

He toed the edge with the pile with the corner of the flip-flops. Lip curling in distaste.

The shoes were salvageable. More or less. The high tops and thick canvas tongue had probably kept the worst of the blood out. They'd need to be scrubbed and have time to dry, but he figured he could make it work.

He set them aside. Refusing to let himself think about the fact that he'd taken them from a corpse after he'd drank his fill. It had been a year and a half ago. Maybe more, maybe less. A man with red hair and a rosary wrapped around his wrist, alone, hungry. Who'd called out to a God that didn't exist when he'd panicked and emptied his clip into the shadows as he'd stalked him. He'd bared his teeth in a terrible, animal grin as the man had fumbled with his clip, waiting for the perfect moment to strike before dropping down on him from above. Echoing a cacophony of growls and screams down the sewer pipe – the latter hitching then fading into nothing remarkably quickly. But still loud enough that Julius had merely raised an eyebrow when he'd emerged. Beckoning him to his side and dragging his tongue up the curve if his supplicant chin to taste the naivety for himself.

He swallowed the dip of nausea. Remembering how he'd dropped the body after stealing the last few pulls before the body went sour and unpalatable. Letting the sweet warmth slick down his chin as he licked his lips and hissed. Head tipped up to a polluted sky that was barely visible through the sewer grate.

He shook his head, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he made his decision and forced it to stick. Telling himself it would be a waste otherwise. That it could be weeks until he found anything that fit him half as well - maybe longer. That he couldn't walk around in flip flops. Especially if there was another attack.

The truth was, he liked the boots.

The jacket slumped over with a heavy, limp sound when he turned his attention to it next. The leather was pitted and split from where it'd caught and torn as he'd made his way up the chute. Still drizzling,  _dripping_ , so soaked through he didn't even want to touch it. Instead, he looked down at it and just laughed, choking until he was forced to let the sound go. Echoing through the empty room like some sort of pathetic chorus.

It wasn't a nice sound.

He couldn't think of anything that was  _less him_  - or more ridiculous looking. And for some reason that made him feel- not better, but a bit less dark.  _More him._  More like the man who liked layers and soft knitted everything. Who had an entire drawer of old college shirts that he wore around the house until they were butter-soft and wore enough holes that his wife threw them out when he wasn't looking.

Believe it or not, the jacket had been a trophy.

Being Julius' top lieutenant was a position you earned, but one you also had to keep. Generally by force. Because if your loyalty wasn't being tested by Julius himself, there were always others trying to rise up the ranks.

He'd been challenged by Viper two years after the Rising. A vicious asshole three times his size with the longest canines he'd ever seen. He'd slit his throat with a piece of razor wire when the upstart figured he had him pinned, crowing his victory to the room. But he'd only had eyes for Julius sitting up on the dais. One fist clenched on the arm of his chair. Like for the first time he thought he might actually lose and that displeased him.

That affirmation alone had made it all the sweeter when he'd surged up, wire unspooling from where it'd been hidden up his sleeve and wrapped it around the bastard's neck. Slamming him to the ground with his boot splintering the feeder's vertebra. Basking in every vicious thought, in the others snarling cheers, as Viper's throat tore and spilled across the concrete floor with a wet gurgle.

A reminder to everyone that he was always one step ahead.

And always ready to prove his worth.

Julius had jumped down and raised his arm in his to celebrate the victory himself. Snarling with him and touching foreheads before he tore the jacket off Viper's cooling corpse and tossed it over his shoulders like the spoils of war.

He'd worn it ever since.

It had been a point of pride.

A reminder of who Julius trusted above all others - save his mother.

A reminder of his prowess.

His strength.

His-

He threw it across the room with a raw, angry sound. Splattering his skin with waves of watered down crimson. Feeling it smear across his neck and ear when the sleeve flared out, slapping him hollowly.

_Flesh._

_Phil._

Who was he now?

What was he?

He worked his way through the rest of the pile as the weight of everything he'd done curdled and grew in the back of his mind like a cancer. Forcing him to focus on one thing at a time as a thin slime of blood, filth and water made handling anything a minefield.

He didn't care about the shirt, that part was easy. Throwing it into the pile with the jacket. Same went with the socks and underwear. The basics had always been provided for Julius' most trusted. Those had little value or attachment to him. But the jeans...those were a different matter.

If you asked his wife, he hated clothes shopping. The truth was, she'd never asked. She'd just assumed. A common stereotype, he supposed. He knew each side had their fair share of them. He'd just never realized they could wound so deep, given time.

It hadn't been long after they'd started dating that she'd began bringing things home for him to try on whenever she went to the mall. Whenever he'd thanked her, kissing her on the cheek and telling her she didn't have to, she'd always responded it was part of her 'love language' and left it at that. But when one or two times became habit forming, he started to wonder if she was actually trying to tell him something.

At the time he'd been busy climbing the corporate ladder and hadn't really given it much thought. At least until he'd woken up one day when his daughter was two years old, opened his closet and realized he'd picked out exactly nothing in it.

He'd been sleep deprived and frustrated to start with, so that sight had pushed him over the edge as far as coping was concerned. They'd been up all night because the toddler had a fever, he'd pulled a triple shift the day before, and his wife was already pushing for another baby when he felt like they were barely handling one.

In his spiral of tunnel vision it'd felt like somewhere along the line he'd become apathetic to his own life - to his own identity and suddenly he was  _terrified_. It felt like he'd lost control or given it up and he didn't know what was worse.

He'd panicked, more or less.

He'd told his wife he was going to pick up something for lunch and drove straight to the mall. He walked into the first store that wasn't swarming with teens and stared at the racks with apprehension until a sales lady took pity on him.

She looked him up and down, taking in his old gym shirt, sweat pants, dried baby spit-up and sleep deprivation and brought him a selection of jeans in his size without him even having to ask.

One pair of them was different from the rest, dark and snug all the way from waist to cuff, yet still managing to be comfortable. They were tighter than any pair of jeans he'd tried on, but the look on the sales ladies' face had been so surprisingly genuine in its admiration that he'd bought them without a second thought.

Hell, he even worn them out.

He'd walked out of the store feeling ten years younger.  _Feeling good_. Looking good and knowing it. It was the kind of self confidence that was also self aware, so it wasn't overblown. He'd felt more like himself than he had since their daughter had been born as he stopped by his wife's favourite place for take-out. Good mood warm in the pit of his belly as he splurged and ordered dessert as well. Cheesecake for them and some of that cookie crumb dirt and gummy worms for the baby. Feeling like he could tackle just about anything - another night of no sleeping, another night of a crabby toddler, another near crisis at work - at least until he got home.

His wife had called it a pre mid-life crisis. Laughing like it was some sort of joke as he'd turned around from setting the take-out bags on the counter. Taking his daughter out of her bouncer as she reached for him - balancing her on his hip as she babbled happily. Good mood tanking when his wife shook her head like he was some badly trained house pet that'd just had an accident on the carpet. Telling him with a tone that was distinctly put upon, that she would return the jeans in the morning.

He'd muttered something about not having the receipt. Part of him wondering, as anger and bitterness rose like nausea, why she couldn't let him have this one  _god damned_  thing.

He could still remember the frustrated sigh she'd made as she set down the plates and turned back towards him.

"Why would you do that? What a waste of money. You look ridiculous, Phil."

He'd set down the baby and just left. Not trusting himself to speak. He'd gotten in the car and just drove. Not coming home until the next morning. They never talked about it. But in the same way, he'd never found that pair of jeans again after he threw them in the laundry to wash. No matter where he looked.

Two days after he turned, he walked onto the mall. Ignoring the ash and char of a fire that 'd started on the opposite side of the complex. Ignoring the screams and trails of blood as he walked confidently through the mezzanine. Dropping his stained suit jacket and unbuttoning his equally stained dress shirt as he went. The plastic nametag barely visible through the dried arterial spray and the single shotgun blast that'd caught him in the shoulder before he'd ripped into the National Guard's man who'd fired it.

He'd walked out in new clothes.

In the same kind of jeans he'd bought years ago like the world's most petty statement.

And the truth was, he hadn't worn anything else since.

He reached down and thumbed the material, blood and all. Slowly rising from his crouch as the jeans hung loose in his hands. Nodding jerkily to himself as he set them gingerly in the sink and pulled out the hose.

Somethings were worth saving.

If he'd had the energy he would have hauled back and punched the wall.

Because deep down, he knew-  _he knew_  those jeans actually had a worse kind of history than the boots or the jacket. A history that reminded him of the way his wife had screamed when he tore their daughter's throat out. How her hair had flared out, kissing the air like a broken wing. How she'd thrown out those jeans, knowing he liked them, and mostly he'd let her. How he'd left the last few tangible pieces of their old life on the floor of that store as he'd shucked his shirt and slacks and chose what he wanted to wear for himself.

He wondered what it said about him.

That he was going out of his way keep the jeans anyway.

* * *

He was making his way down the corridor from the garbage chute when he noticed the kid and the tall guy with the pipe waiting for him by the entrance to the ward.

"Ready?" the kid asked, kicking off the wall with the flat of his shoe. "Soups up. If you hurry you might get half a serving. Nicole is cookin'. She's kind of stingy on the best of days, so don't expect much."

"I don't," he monotoned, before wincing. Still not used to the sound of his own voice - his human one. Stomach roiling at the idea of food. Only dully curious when he noticed the kid was signing to the taller one.

_He couldn't be deaf, could he?_

_How had he made it this far if he couldn't hear?_

He shook his head, trying to expel a couple dozen intrusive thoughts and failing.

"Hey man, what should we call you?"

Gravity kept him walking. Shock did the rest. Using the railing built into the wall to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Quiet for long enough that the kid asked again.

"What's your name?"

He'd heard the first time, he just didn't know what to say.

In the end he went with his gut answer.

"Flesh," he told him. Refusing to look anywhere but right in front of him when he caught the beginning of the kid's frown.

"Flesh? What kind of name is that?"

"One that was given to me," he answered simply, chin tipping up like it could deflect the memory of meeting Julius for the second time. Already feeling over-saturated and at risk of spilling over as he forced the memories back.

The truth was, he didn't feel like anyone else yet.

Especially himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Reference:
> 
> \- Tulua: rising


End file.
